fic takes place 1013 years prior to the events of Slayers TRY, during the Koma Senso/War of the Monsters' Fall; Shabranigdu and Ceiphied have murder-fied one another, Gaav's been unwittingly human-ized, Dynast has lost both his priest and his general, and Zelas decides the time's ripe to add an overpowerful smartass to their ranks.

warnings for use of the phrase 'frost-bitten cock-eyed f*ck-taint,' and for Deep Sea Dolphin generally, whose characterization i've taken a fair amount of liberties f*cking all to hell.

although to be fair, we're not GIVEN much of a character story where she's concerned, or where most of the other Shabra Five are concerned, either.

which means essentially ALL of this fic is the product of wild speculation; until that most wonderfluffulous (?) kanzaka comes up with more definitive personalities/relationship dynamics of the mazoku lords, i'm planning to default to my seat-of-the-pants interpretation, featured below:

"What in L-sama's tits is that?" She likes Dolphin; the abrasive crudity of her speech, her crass politesse and sometimes-savage, always-lethal temperament.

"Ehhhh?" Her sister leans closer, peering with open skepticism into the bubbling-viscous, putrefying pool of slime, soon to be her son and subordinate. "Rank li'l shit, a'int he? 'N he's all…gloopy." Her dingbat sibling quizzically toes at her congealing subordinate, and she seizes the opportunity to exact an unwitting gratuity, leeching what modest portion of Dolphin's energy the nominal contact allows –a bonus shot of power for her progeny.

Deep Sea feels the theft happening, of course, and communicates her outrage by way of petulant flailing and shocking invective; Zelas doesn't doubt a sporting round of violence would soon have followed, had not the cool-crisp breath of winter whistled sibilant through her Lair, heralding the arrival of Dynast Grausherra –with Hellmaster at his back.

Reflexively, she tips her head in barest deference: a beast's instinctive obeisance to Death.

Dolphin's instincts are slower on the uptake; she ignores Phibrizzo entirely in favor of brandishing aqueous talons at Dynast…who only smiles coldly and offhandedly flips the bird in her general direction, which comes with the hilarious consequence of casting her water-tipped fingers in crawling ice; in a matter of seconds, Deep Sea's encased in the stuff up to her elbows.

"YOU FROST-BITTEN COCK-EYED FUCK-TAINT-!"

Ignoring what degenerates inevitably into a Dynast-themed diatribe,

"Did I hear you say 'dragon tails?'" He wonders, eyeing the thickening morass with calculating interest. "You weren't being facetious?"

"Dynast, darling, we're at war with the overgrown lizards; what better way to set them off than to steep their executioner in the tincture of their own dead?"

"Clever." Cruel admiration lights into the liquid shadow of his person. "Though of course they'll smell him coming miles before he actually arrives."

Zelas smirks, feral.

"I assure you, no matter their forewarning or preparation, they will still die." Her gaze crosses Phibrizzo's sharp, shifting visage. "You'll be neck-deep in Ryuzoku soon, Lord Hellmaster." Death leers back at her, equal parts giddy iniquity and clinical psychosis.

"Hooooh…that's quite the boast, my lady." Then, shrewdly, "He must have received a very generous endowment of you." Nearly a quarter of her power, in fact, has gone into the creation of this life, but she's no reason to tell him as much, Hellmaster or no. "Priest or general?"

"Yes." She replies, impish. Dynast and Phibrizzo reward her with twin expressions of stupefaction, but before either of them can remark on her decision to merge what have traditionally always been separate Minion Offices, Dolphin –having apparently worked herself free at last of her creeping crystal prison—re-enters the dialogue and beats them to the punch,

"Y'mean, you're only makin' one?"

"One's all I'm going to need, as you will shortly see." And by 'shortly,' she realizes, she actually means 'immediately;' he's well and fully curdled.

In one fluid motion, she steals deftly from her divan and sheds her human skin; Dynast melts partially into shadow to accommodate her suddenly much larger mass, while Deep Sea and Hellmaster both teleport several feet into the air to avoid being crushed underfoot.

In the ensuing anticipatory silence, she bows her head, whispers ancient, life-giving words, and breathes, a gentle, animating exhalation of warmth over the inert puddle.

For an embarrassingly (and suspiciously) long interval, nothing happens; then, just as it occurs to her to wonder if the freshly-sentient little bastard isn't intentionally drawing out the suspense for show, he begins cheerfully –if uselessly—burbling at her –insolence she only forgives several seconds after the fact, when finally, following a series of dramatic, coruscating flashes, a furious wind picks up, whipping anything not tied down into the air. Later perhaps, it's possible she'll spare a moment to mourn the loss of several of her more priceless artifacts (most of all her divan, which unfortunately explodes against her flank in the tumult), but such trifles are presently beneath her notice.

Instead, wild pride surges through her; her son is a cyclone, an unstoppable force of chaos and destruction.

It's a Most Promising beginning.

"Xellos," Beastmaster bellows, Naming him; the whirlwind responds, dwindling to a mild breeze and then stilling entirely to the smash-and-clatter of various grades of debris, crashing against the floor. In its place, at her feet, a thick cone carved of shadow shivers into solid form.

As they watch, Xellos alters his appearance a third time, taking a human shape –inspired, no doubt, by an unending lifetime's worth of memory-reference material she'd made certain to include in his blueprint; it's curious, she decides, that he would so glibly and immediately choose this mortal guise.

Beyond noting the novel strangeness of his façade, Zelas's first thought is that his fashion sense sucks; his modest garb consists of a dark, patterned cloak and loose breeches to match, a cream-yellow turtleneck, mute-hued gloves and simple shoes. But, as an appraising quiet lengthens between Mother and son, she discerns the wily-clever purpose in his choice of raiment mirrored in the dissembling innocence of his expression; the costume is an artful deception, meant to disarm, and his broad smile is a bald-faced lie, made to echo the unnerving faux-levity of his eyes –which, as he opens them at last to behold her, she finds are luminous, the same rich violet of his crown, and dangerous, edged with deadly mischief.

She approves, and feels her lips pulling back in a great, toothy grin –clearly the prompt Xellos has been waiting for to break the ice. In the most obnoxiously chipper-lilting voice imaginable:

Dolphin's hysterical braying picks up right on cue, offset by Dynast loudly broadcasting waves of pity-drenched empathy; meanwhile, she offers her tiny, crazy son the wolfish equivalent of Supreme Exasperation and graciously doesn't bat the beaming smartass into the nearest wall.

It's going to be a looooong Forever.

Xellos Metallium sweeps his finger in an invisible arc across the horizon, and bright merriment chases his smile into rare candor as the myriad dragon legions fall from the sky to blanket the earth; this genocide business makes for Most Enjoyable afternoon entertainment.

He can tell it's going to be a fantastic Forever.

Filia will be pleased; turns out Xellos actually is something on the order of 'raw garbage.' hence 'namagomi musuko,' which my EXTENSIVE (read: middling) knowledge of the japanese language allows me to translate as: 'raw garbage son.'

really, the title's only in japan-knees-ease because it sounds better that way, but there's ulterior motive involved, also, which has Very Much to do with my need to pay (oblique!) homage to my flailing love of the xellos/filia pairing.

also.

there're about a skadillion different spellings for both Zelas and Phibrizzo; i only picked the ones i like the best.

and.

[i am jack's belated disclaimer.]

le fin, babies.

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